Divine poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Love is a noble passion of the heart;
That, with it very essence doth impart
All needfull Circumstances, and effects
Vnto the chosen party it affects;
In absence, it enjoyes; and with an eye
Fill'd with celestiall fier, doth espye
Objects remote: It joyes, and smiles in griefe;
It sweetens poverty; It brings reliefe;
It gives the Feeble, strength; the Coward, spirit;
The sicke man, health; the underserving, merit;
It makes the proud man, humble; and the stout
It ouercomes; and treads him underfoot;
It makes the mighty man of warre to droope;
And him, to serve, that never, yet, could stoope;
It is a fire, whose Bellowes are the breath
Of heaven above, and kindled here beneath:
Tis not the power of a mans election
To loue; He loves not by his owne direction;
It is nor beauty, nor benigne aspect
That alwayes moves the Lover, to affect;
These are but means: Heavens pleasure is the cause:
Love is not bound to reason, and her Lawes
Are not subjected to th'imperious will
Of man: It lies not in his power to nill:
How is this Love abus'd! That's onely made
A snare for wealth, or to set up a trade;
T'enrich a great mans Table, or to pay
A desperate debt; or meerly to allay

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A base and wanton lust; which done, no doubt,
The love is ended, and her fier out:
No; he that loves for pleasure, or for pelfe,
Loves truely, none; and, falsely, but himselfe:
The pleasure past, the wealth consum'd and gone,
Love hath no subject now to worke upon:
The props being falne, that did support the roofe,
Nothing but rubbish, and neglected Stuffe,
Like a wilde Chaos of Confusion, lies
Presenting uselesse ruines to our eyes:
The Oyle that does maintaine loves sacred fire,
Is vertue mixt with mutuall desire
Of sweet societie, begun and bred
I'th soule; nor ended in the mariage bed:
This is the dew of Hermon, that does fill
The soule with sweetnesse, watring Sions hill;
This is that holy fire, that burns and lasts,
Till quencht by death: The other are but blasts,
That faintly blaze like Oyle-forsaken snuffes
Which every breath of discontentment puffs
And quite extinguishes; and leaves us nothing
But an offensive subject of our loathing.